The sign of the first violets has become a bittersweet sight for me. My grandmother, Angèle Violet Midgley, passed away six years ago today. She spent the last few weeks of her life in hospital and we would sit and describe the signs of spring unfolding in the outside world to her knowing that she would never experience another one. Violets were always her flower and we would crystalise them for use on her birthday cake in the autumn or spend hours delicately painting them onto icing for her. So it was at once incredibly fitting and heartbreaking that she hung on just long enough for the first violets to bloom before passing. So whenever I come across a violet, wherever it may be, I think of her.